


stupid o'clock

by orphan_account



Series: how (not) to adult [4]
Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, First Meetings, M/M, god bless bixlow am i right, it's 2am and we're both doing laundry au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 11:07:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6655528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Freed blinks, mouth falling open in part shock part amusement as he lets his gaze move away from his face and wander further down Mr. Rock-and-Roll’s body.</p><p>He’s buff, ridiculously so. But that’s not what makes Freed’s mouth drop open into a confused little ‘o’.</p><p>“Why’re you wearing a <i>Pikachu</i> hoodie?” Freed blurts out, eyes widening as he takes in the black hoodie with a faded image of iconic Pokémon character stretched out across the front for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	stupid o'clock

The whole _point_ , Freed thinks bitterly as he trudges down the unfamiliar flight of stairs, soundlessly mumbling curses under his breath as he goes. The whole _point_ of forking out a small fortune each month on his accommodation is that he’s supposed to actually _get_  the luxuries that come with the extra expense. 

Like, for example, having an ensuite bathroom so he doesn’t have to use the communal campus showers he’s heard so many horror stories about.

Or having a washing machine and dryer in the kitchen so he doesn’t have to make his way down _six_ flights of stairs with half his weight worth of dirty laundry tucked under his arms once every two weeks. 

And yet here he is, doing exactly that.

He decides, as he _finally_ reaches the basement where he’s been told the laundry room for their apartment block apparently resides, that he’s going to _kill_ Bixlow as soon as he gets the chance.

How the hell do you manage to _blow up_ a washing machine anyway?

It’s not like it’s a particularly difficult machine to use; you just toss your clothes in, pour in some detergent and set it to go. But _no,_ apparently that’s too much for Bixlow.

Freed’s brow twitches slightly as he recalls the sudden explosion he’d heard coming from their kitchen and the way Bixlow had sheepishly knocked on his door thirty seconds later, drenched head to toe in soapy suds mumbling ‘ _Freed_ , _we may have a problem_.’

Understatement of the goddamn _year_. 

So now it’s 2am on a Friday night and there are _so_ many things he’d rather be doing, but here he is, standing outside the laundry room with two weeks worth of dirty laundry stuffed into a hamper under his arms.

He sighs and tries to push aside any feelings of murderous intent directed towards Bixlow (at least until he gets back up to the flat) and shoves the door to the laundry room open, preparing for the worst.

It’s, surprisingly, not as bad as he’d expected it to be.

There are few piles of unclaimed underwear and lone socks dotted around the room but, honestly, it’s about as clean as you’d expect from a laundry room shared by a building of students, most of whom probably never had to wash their own clothes before coming to university. And, he’s happy to note as he takes a step inside the room, it’s _empty_. 

Well, almost empty.

He hesitates, taking a nervous step backwards as he catches sight of the one other person apparently sad enough to be doing laundry at 2am on a Friday night.

He’s perched on top of one of the dryers, back against the wall with a thick textbook resting on his lap. A pair of headphones are nestled snugly over his ears and even over the noise of the dryer whirring underneath him, Freed can just about hear what sounds like rock and roll leaking from them.

He glances up as Freed enters the room properly, their eyes meeting for a fraction of a second before Mr. Rock-and-Roll drags his gaze back to the textbook on his lap.

 _Rude_ , Freed thinks absentmindedly as he makes his way across the laundry room, looking for an empty washing machine that’s far enough away from Mr. Rock-and-Roll so they don’t have to make awkward eye contact with each other again. It’s not like he’s all that well versed on the complexities of communal laundry room etiquette, but he _thinks_ it’s only polite to at least greet someone when they walk into a room, and not just blatantly ignore them.

But, whatever.

It’s gone 2am and he’s feeling oddly cranky himself, so maybe he _won’t_ blame Mr. Rock-and-Roll for his lack of manners this time around.

He hums to himself as he scoops his clothes out of the hamper and begins tossing them into the large washing machine, mentally congratulating himself for having the foresight to sort out his colours from his whites back at the flat. 

Once they’re all inside he slams the door shut, pours the detergent in, fiddles with some buttons and leans backwards against the wooden bench opposite the machine, already resigning himself to watching the machine spin for a half an hour while he waits for his clothes to wash. 

Except, the machine doesn’t start.

Freed frowns and leans forwards, prodding the button that very clearly says _START_ once again.

Nothing.

He prods it again, harder this time. 

Still, nothing.

His brow twitches and he resists the urge to kick the machine because he is an adult and he _isn’t_ going to resort to something so childish as kicking a mac—

Fuck it.

It’s 2am and he’s _tired_ and he doesn’t care if he’s supposed to be an adult right now.

So he kicks the machine and promptly recoils backwards, hissing and grabbing at his foot as the jolt of pain shoots through his body.

The washing machine _still_ doesn’t start.

“Jesus fu—”

“You’ve gotta press both buttons at the same time.”

Freed whirls around, heart plummeting to the pit of his stomach as he finally remembers that he’s not alone in the laundry room. Mr. Rock-and-Roll is staring at him curiously, chin propped up with one hand as his lips twitch upwards into the hint of a smirk.

“ _What_?” Freed snaps with probably a little more venom than Mr. Rock-and-Roll actually deserves.

But can you blame him? It’s 2am, his washing machine won’t work, his foot fucking _aches_ and Mr. Rock-and-Roll is about five seconds away from _laughing_ at him.

“You have to press both buttons at the same time,” Mr. Rock-and-Roll says again, a little slower this time as if _that_ had been the problem. He hops down from the dryer he’s been sat on and quickly crosses the room until he’s standing just a few inches away from Freed. “Like this, see?”

Freed finds himself holding his breath as Mr. Rock-and-Roll leans forwards and holds both the _START_ and the _SPIN_ button down at the same time. True to his word, the washing machine whirrs into life and Mr. Rock-and-Roll takes a step backwards, a smug and oddly satisfied grinning stretching across his face.

He’s _tall_ , Freed realises belatedly as he glances up to get a good look at the man. He’d always considered himself to be on the tall side, but Mr. Rock-and-Roll is something else entirely.

He’s _cute_ too, with messy blond hair cropped short, bright blue eyes, a strong jawline and—

Freed blinks, mouth falling open in part shock part amusement as he lets his gaze move away from his face and wander further down Mr. Rock-and-Roll’s body.

He’s _buff_ , ridiculously so. But that’s not what makes Freed’s mouth drop open into a confused little ‘o’.

“Why’re you wearing a _Pikachu_ hoodie?” Freed blurts out, eyes widening as he takes in the black hoodie with a faded image of iconic Pokémon character stretched out across the front for the first time.

Mr. Rock-and-Roll quirks a brow and leans against the washing machine. “Something wrong with Pikachu?”

“No— I just— Well.”

“Well?”

“You don’t _look_ like a Pokémon fan,” Freed admits, shuffling his feet a little awkwardly as Mr. Rock-and-Roll’s grin widens.

To his surprise, Mr. Rock-and-Roll _laughs_. “What _do_ I look like then?”

Freed bites his lip, because what is he supposed to say? That he looks like the type of person who wouldn’t be out of place at a 24-hour gym, not sitting alone in a laundry room at 2am decked out in a hoodie with a cartoon character from the early 90s plastered across his front?

“Not a Pokémon fan.”

Mr. Rock-and-Roll chuckles again, shrugging as he fixes Freed with a curious stare. “Are _you_ a Pokémon fan?”

Despite himself, Freed can’t help but snort because, as he’s quickly come to realise, it is _impossible_ to live with Bixlow and not be a Pokémon fan. He can’t count the number of lazy nights he’s spent squashed up on the couch in their living room with Ever and Bixlow on either side of him, engaged in Pokémon battles to decide who’s going to do the dishes or unplug the shower drain.

“I guess you could say that.”

Mr. Rock-and-Roll hums and looks like he’s about to ask another question, but a _ding_ across the room interrupts them and has him glancing over towards his dryer.

Freed can’t help the feeling of disappointment that wells up suddenly inside him as Mr. Rock-and-Roll side steps him and makes his way back to the dryer. Against his better judgement, he follows Mr. Rock-and-Roll across the room and watches as he stuffs his dry clothes into a hamper before tossing the textbook he’d been reading on top of it all.

“Physics?” he murmurs, reading the title of the thick book. “You’re a Physics student?”

Mr. Rock-and-Roll hesitates for a fraction of a second, eyes suddenly suspicious before he relaxes and nods. “Doing my Masters.”

“ _Masters_?”

 _Shit_ , Freed thinks. _So he’s cute_ and _smart_. _Really_ smart if he’s doing a Masters degree in _Physics_ , aka the subject responsible for more tears than any other he’s ever heard of.

Mr. Rock-and-Roll nods, shifting slightly so his hamper rests against his hips. “You?”

“Linguistics. Second year.”

"Nice. And, uh,” for the first time since their conversation first started, Mr. Rock-and-Roll looks oddly nervous. “You make a habit of doing your laundry at stupid o’clock?”

“ _No_ ,” Freed laughs, shaking his head a little. “Flatmate blew up our washing machine. Don’t ask, I have no idea either,” he adds, answering the unasked question that is so obviously on Mr. Rock-and-Roll’s lips. “What about you? You looked pretty comfy on your dryer, back there.”

Mr. Rock-and-Roll laughs again, cheeks colouring just a little as he nods. “Sometimes. It’s quiet in here, so I get to kill two birds with one stone, you know?” He nods towards the textbook in his hamper. 

“Ah,” Freed nods, feeling strangely bold. “Then I might too.”

“You might what?”

“Make a habit of doing laundry at stupid o’clock,” he grins up at him and is relieved when Mr. Rock-and-Roll grins back. 

“Laxus,” he says suddenly, sticking out his free hand. 

“Freed,” he grins, reaching out to grab his hand. “It’s nice to meet you _Laxus_.”

“Likewise.”

Laxus’ hand fits nicely around his own, _too_ nicely, and Freed realises he’s going to have to actually have to _thank_ Bixlow for this.


End file.
